


The Weight

by SelkiePunk



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, M/M, Non Consensual, Other, Possibly Pre-Slash, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelkiePunk/pseuds/SelkiePunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First he couldn't sleep, now Will Graham can't eat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Food and Waste

**Author's Note:**

> After catching another serial killer, Will Graham's mind warps back on itself yet again.This story takes place in a post-trauma, post-killer-of-the-week between episodes setting. Will has assisted in the capture of yet another killer, one who has recognized the ineffable in Will – the psychological weight starts to take a toll…..
> 
> Set up: Will can’t leave home, can’t eat, sleep is as always, tortuous

     Will Graham stood before his table, willing himself to eat.  Two (or was it three?) days of only water and weak tea was taking its toll. But no matter what he tried, his mind, trapped in a feedback loop even he recognized as fucked up, served unto him the taste of blood. The scent of offal.  This time, the cost of chasing the ripper’s latest acolyte (copycat was too reductive a term for the exchange) – the victims all devoured or partially devoured, but in an ecstasy of gluttony and abasement – teeth marks and torn veins.  The Terror Rip, Mr. Thrill Kill, the newspapers called him, had delighted in contamination, in poison and toxin spread. In Squalor.  A diseased mind, not particularly refined, aiming at shock and awe, and arriving only at shock and disgust.

     Thrill Kill had, of course, killed himself in the third act, as they’d closed in, a carefully staged for maximum effect scene, himself naked before the mutilated and abased corpse of his final victim, both killer and victim smeared in excrement and blood – both of their mouths filled with offal.

     And now it was all Will could see.  All he could taste:  Blood and shit.

     He’d tried everything. In the days before, when the tremors and the vise had clenched around his chest, before, when he could still leave the house, when the outside world hadn’t felt oppressive, the sky a measured weight over him, he’d gone to the store, Hudson’s – to the deli counter, stood before all the aisles of packaged foods and saw meat.  Stood before the jugs of milk and juice and saw fluids, red and coating.  In the produce section he saw each leaf coated with the smear of Thrill Kill’s hand.

     But that was when he could still make himself leave the house.

     He had told Lecter the truth, when he’d said that he only felt safe looking back at his house, floating in the dark of night with the lights calling, amber and warm, like a ship in a fog-shrouded lake.  The isolations made him safe.  The water a separating cushion to everything else – stopping the buffeting chop of sensation.  Emotions – everyone else’s thoughts and feelings, desired or not, there they were, hidden or overt – their feelings battering like fists – and himself, assaulted.

     But now he couldn’t leave the house, the bird of panic, fear-caged in his chest – fluttered and bashed his ribs if he so much as touched the door knob.  His dog pack used the kitchen doggy door, and Will stayed safe behind his.

    “Eat something,” he hissed at himself, causing Winston to whine at the tone.  “For God’s sake.  Eat anything.  Take your pick.”

     The detritus of two day’s failure to eat spread before him on the table.  The meager givings of his cupboard and fridge making way for box after box of delivery food, pizza, the deli, Chinese – the only ones that would deliver out to the house.  Each offering boxed or spread on wax paper, each lovely to look at but ashes or worse in his mouth.  Each only missing one or two bites at most.

     The pizza.  He’d try the pizza again. It was freshest, and only topped with cheese.  And he’d nearly managed to keep down a whole slice before his mind had turned traitor and he’d heaved it all up.

     “Eat something, just anything, you dick,” Will said, and his voice frightened him.  The cracking growl of desperation, the gnawing, perpetual gnawing, of fear.

     How much longer could it last?  He closed his eyes and picked up a slice of pizza – brought the crust to his mouth. Took a bite and chewed, fighting back nausea at the texture – at the images – sinew and meat, the taste of blood and offal. Human waste.

     Moaning, Will rushed to the sink, leaned over it choking and spitting, his arms trembling as he braced himself.

    “God, you freak,” he sobbed on the ragged breath, stolen from the clenching of his stomach. “Fucking freak.”

     How much longer could it last?

     Will laughed weakly at the ridiculous predicament as he shuffled into the sitting room.  He collapsed onto the sofa.  Maybe this was it – the breakdown he’d always feared.  Maybe instead of becoming a monster, cold, calculating and lethal, he’d instead become a quivering mass of feeling, incapable of caring for himself in even the most fundamental way. His mind, self-destructing to take out the cancer, turning it all inward, ruining him from within.

     How much longer could it last? And how much longer could he keep Jack Crawford at bay with a story of the flu?

     He was sick, that much was true.  Everyone had always known it, and now his mind was the surgeon – cutting the disease out through starving his body. 

    A tortured laugh clawed out of Will’s throat. Will Graham put his head back and laughed at the irony

    How much longer could it last? 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sent by Jack Crawford, Dr. Lecter and Dr. Bloom arrive at Will's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head-jumping btwn Will and Hannibal at chapter breaks.

     Hannibal Lecter sat in Alana Bloom’s Honda, listening to the pleasant combination of her voice and the drone of the tires over the county road.

     Two things were glaringly obvious from her words and her manner.  Number one, Dr. Bloom’s substantial crush on Will Graham had intensified proportionately to her proximity to him as they’d worked together in the past weeks (not that Hannibal could blame her. Will was a constant delight to his senses.). Number Two, Both doctors Bloom and Lecter were in accord that Jack Crawford was an unmitigated dick. Yes, there were extenuating circumstances, but still Crawford was not the best steward of Will’s gift.

     Neither observation was startling. Dr. Bloom’s pupils dilated every time Will walked into the room (as did his own, Hannibal suspected, although he had worked hard to suppress his autonomic responses to all stimuli except that of a prepared meal, spread before him).  Dr. Bloom’s respiration also increased, as slight flush crept up her neck and into her beautiful cheeks.

      Will wasn’t immune to her regard, but dear, darling Will, Hannibal already knew why he held himself apart.  He viewed himself as flawed, as damaged and worse, damaging.  And he may be right, certainly it would take a certain strength to dominate Will’s fear. To control it, to bring his unbounded empathetic responses into line with a desired outcome.

     Dr. Bloom may have that strength, it wouldn’t surprise Hannibal to learn if she did.  But he knew he did.  It was beyond question.  Just as it was beyond question that darling Will, his mongoose, wasn’t for her. 

     Will was a banquet, destined for Hannibal himself.  And it didn’t even bother Hannibal that he didn’t know exactly how he intended to partake of the feast.  He was clear-eyed enough to recognize that Will called to a number of his more refined appetites.

     “I’m worried,” Dr. Bloom reiterated, pausing to steal a glance at her mentor.  Hannibal was again glad that the cold had necessitated he wear a heavy coat which perforce masked his body’s response to certain thoughts of Will.  He shifted in his seat to ease the turgid pressure in his lap.

     “You are right to worry,” Hannibal said, stifling a smile at the truths she could not know.  He glanced at the dirt road. “But Will isn’t fine china. He’s stronger than you give him credit for.”

     “It’s not that I don’t think he’s strong,” Alana bristled, showing the core of iron that Hannibal suspected was in her slight frame.  “It’s that I know Jack doesn’t have Will’s best interests at heart.  It’s that I respect the _power_ of Will’s gift. And with that respect, comes concern.  Will’s gift is a weapon.”

     “And you’re afraid he may turn it on himself.”

      “Not deliberately,” Alana stole a glance at Hannibal’s placid face.  “I don’t think he’d harm himself.  But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t go off in his face.”

     It was something Hannibal had already witnessed, in the aftermath of Hobb’s death as Abigail lay there, bleeding out. Will was unable to build a fort within his mind, trying to help her and unable, the feedback loop of pain and fear and horror, spiraling into him, shuddering out of him.  A moment only, Hannibal had stood watching.  A glance only he’d stolen moments later, as he’d pressed his hands into the girl’s wound. He’d only allowed himself these small glances of Will’s suffering for the exact same reason he only allowed himself small sips of a fine vintage.  For the same reason he made himself leave the table before he was fully sated.

    Transcendence mustn’t be wolfed down.  It must be savored.

    And Will was nothing if not transcendentally beautiful in his pain.  In his distress.

    Hannibal shifted in his seat again, repositioning his coat over the bulge in his lap.

    “You are right to worry,” he repeated as the car came to a stop in front of a modest white house.  “Jack sent us. And if Jack is worried, it’s because he senses an asset is in danger.”

      Which, Hannibal was learning, was pure Jack Crawford.

     “Exactly.” Alana turned off the engine and climbed out of her car.  Hannibal sat for a moment longer, waiting for his response to subside as she climbed the porch steps.

    Hannibal had been in Will’s house, of course.  Had handled his things, had run his fingers over rows of neat garments, over Will’s still damp pillow. 

     Night terrors. 

     Will was simply delectable.

     Schooling his thoughts away, preparing himself, Hannibal assumed the benign and friendly mask of a friend.  Of a doctor. He climbed out of the car and walked slowly to where Alana waited for him.

    He could deny himself pleasures.  It was part of his strength and exceptionality. He could deny his appetite almost indefinitely, should the need arise.

     But he did promise himself that he wouldn’t deny himself forever.  And with Will, he would allow himself many liberties.

     Alana knocked on the door.

     Hannibal licked his lips. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mise en scene

           The knock startled Will out of a fraught sleep.  The dogs began to bark.  Several ran out the doggy door in the kitchen to race around to the front porch.

            At the door’s window, through the drawn shade, Will saw two silhouettes and knew exactly who it was standing outside.

             “Dammit,” he groaned as Doctors Bloom and Lecter waited at his door.

            The sounds of excited yips from his dogs, and human murmurs as the two psychiatrists greeted his pack. 

            “Will?” Alana asked, knocking again.  “We need to talk to you.”

            Will stood, then suddenly light headed had to grab at the wall. 

            “Just a moment,” he called.

            At least this time he was wearing pants.  Will was grateful that he kept no mirrors outside of the bathroom as he ran his hands over sweat-damp hair.

            Well, he was supposed to be sick.  He _was_ sick.

            He went to the door.  Reached for the knob.  His hand shook like a dowser’s wand.  He couldn’t touch it.  Couldn’t open it.  Couldn’t invite the rush in, the rush away.  The drawing out of himself through every pore as everything else poured in.

            His shoulders started to shake. A small sound of denial, slight and cough-like, lodged and repeated in his throat.

            He stumbled back, allowed himself to fall into the sofa again. Seated, but slumped against the cushions, he called out.

            “Come in.”  He let himself rest against the sofa back. He’d said he had the flu.  He probably looked it, with the remainder of his night sweats stale on his body, the tremble and weakness from not being able to eat.

            He didn’t have to play at being sick.

            “It’s open, come in,” Will called again, glad to see Alana’s piercing eyes as she followed his invitation, even as he hated Jack Crawford, and both Doctors, for intruding.

            Dr. Bloom wrinkled her nose slightly, then masked the reaction to the stale air.  Hannibal took it a step farther, of course he did, not only wrinkling his nose but leaving the door open behind him.  A slight tightening of his eyes showed Will exactly how his fussy therapist felt about the smells of Will’s illness.

            “Sorry for the smell,” Will said, trying to keep his eyes off the open door, trying to ignore the panicked voice, screaming in his head to _close it, just close it, close it now!_

            “I’m not feeling well,” Will said, prying his eyes of the door. “I haven’t been up to cleaning.”

            Or eating.  Or leaving.

            Will stifled a panicked laugh.

            “Jack said you had the flu.” Alana’s voice was flat.  She cleared a pile of books off a chair opposite him and sat.  “You look like hell.”

            Will closed his eyes and scrubbed his face.  “I feel like hell.”  It was easy to admit this part.

            Hannibal’s striking, inscrutable eyes roved the room, lighting several times on Will before moving on. 

            It was odd how he kept his coat on.

            “Can,” Will had to clear his throat against the tightness of panic, struggling to keep his voice level.  “Can you close the door please?” 

            He didn’t have to fake the shiver.

            “Certainly.  I suppose you have a fever,” Dr. Lecter said. He closed the door. “I wanted to air out the stale humors, even though we know they can’t harm us, still fresh air is a small pleasure we may share.”

            Will took off his glasses, set them on the end table.  God, he was so tired. How long would they stay? What did they want? 

            Will pinched his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and asked.

            “Why are you here, again?”

            He could feel the weight of their gazes, Hannibal’s especially.  Will kept his eyes closed and let his head fall against the cushion again. “Does Jack not believe me about being sick?”

            “No, it’s not that,” Bloom began to murmur. 

            Hannibal cut her off. “Perhaps he doesn’t believe that you are sick with the flu.”

            There it was.  Will had to smile, appreciative as always of Lecter’s forthrightness.

            “So, what. Your job is to make sure I’m good enough?  Rested?  You here to feed me, Dr. Lecter? Build me up, so I can go back out there?”

            The words, tinged with hostility, were out before Will could consider what he’d just given away.  He opened his eyes and hastily put his glasses back on. 

            “You can tell Jack, yes, I’m sick. Yes, I’ll get better.  Yes, I’ll get back in the saddle.”

            “I’m not going to tell Jack that, unless I’m certain it’s true.”  Alana, ever protective.

            Will felt Hannibal’s gaze on him again. Will made his eyes look at Hannibal’s smooth brow, at the top of his left ear, at his collar.  Will’s gaze pin-balling because he had to appear to look, at least a little.

            “What is it, Will?” Hannibal asked, his eyes unrelenting.  “What is making you unwell?”

            How like the good doctor, to label it “unwell” – the absence of ‘well,’ instead of the presence of derangement, or mental or physical illness.

            Anger surged through Will, even as he recognized it as unjust, he felt the need to respond to it, to lash out, even slightly.  To make them leave.

            “I’m sick. I’ll get better.  I think it’s time you both leave, and you can tell Jack I don’t need any home health services checking up on me, and I don’t need any meals on wheels.”

            Jack Crawford, always treating him like Lecter had said: like a fragile teacup.  Like a broken animal, while remaining unrelenting of his use of him.

            “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned food, Will,” Lecter said, in the imperturbable voice. “Are you hungry?”

            And like a perspective drawing, like a staircase that first telescopes away from you, then back towards you, Will saw it. 

            Lecter knew. 

            “I need to rest.  I need you to go. Both of you.”

            Alana stood up, reluctant but respectful of his wish.  Of this boundary. His autonomy.

            Hannibal, who had never sat nor removed his heavy coat, who had never taken his eyes of Will, even though he was an intensely courteous man, and polite social rules dictate that one not stare, Hannibal, moved closer to where Will sprawled on the sofa. He was a mere step or two away, his presence looming.

            Will made himself glance into Hannibal’s eyes.  What he saw there raised gooseflesh. Knowledge. Will wasn’t a mongoose, he was a mouse, and Hannibal was a cat ready to pounce.

            Will glanced away, shook his head.  His diseased mind was playing tricks on him.  It wasn’t the alertness of a predator he saw in Hannibal’s gaze, it was the supreme intelligence of a diagnostician sensing the crux of a problem.

            “I’m not assured that you are well, Will,” Hannibal said.  “And I’m not prepared to parrot lies to Agent Crawford about your state.”

            “It didn’t stop you before,” Will spat.

            Hannibal’s face remained, as it usually was to Will, avid and serene. “Ah, but then I was acting in accord with my conscience.  If I go now, I will be betraying myself and my own instincts.”

            Will let out a tight, disbelieving laugh.  “Are you not hearing me? I don’t care what you feel, and I don’t care what Jack Crawford thinks.  I want you to leave.  Leave my house.  Now.  Perhaps you need help being shown the door.”

            In anger and embarrassment, Will surged up out of the chair. He took one step before the weakness attacked. Before his vision blurred, and the floor pitched violently under his feet. His vision tunneled, as his blood roared in his ears.  Reeling, Will fought to stand.

            “Easy. I have you.” Lecter’s voice, reassuring, as his powerful, perfectly manicured hand grasped under Will’s arm, offering support and strength.

            Will met Lecter’s gaze. Saw and felt the in-rush of emotions, conflicting, complex, illusory. Love. Fascination. Hunger. Something dark and powerful. Joy. Anger. Protectiveness. Love. Hunger.

            Hunger, most of all.

            God he was losing it.  He was projecting his own hunger for food onto Lecter.

            Will tried to pull his arm away.  The pads of Lecter’s fingers pressed more firmly into his biceps. 

            “I’m fine,” Will gasped.  He took a step forward, and then the strength left his legs. As he fell, he felt Hannibal’s arms go around him.  Felt the strange sensation of being caught up in the other man’s embrace. 

            His vision blurring, consciousness leaving in a rush of heaviness that pervaded his bones, Will fell. 

            Hannibal held him.  Murmured reassurances in his ear.  Inhaled deeply of his neck.

            No, Will imagined that part, surely.

            Will passed out.


	4. Chapter 4

 

            Hannibal had positioned himself for it, had anticipated that Will would faint, still a part of himself exulted in disbelief when Will fell into his arms. 

            “Oh my God!” Alana gasped, rushing forward to help.  

            Hannibal squeezed Will tighter in his grasp, felt the solid weight of this beautiful man, the heaviness of his head resting against Hannibal’s shoulder. 

            “I have him,” Hannibal said, hoping the tightness in his voice might be attributable to muscular effort (although it was no effort at all, the rush, the joy – a dump in his veins of power and domination, it was nothing to hold Will.  It was everything to hold him.) “If you would move those papers, please.”

            Dr. Bloom rushed to clear the sofa as Hannibal clutched Will, and wished she would slow down. 

            Hannibal let his face lower towards Will’s neck a second time.  Allowed himself a deep inhalation.  Stale sweat and laundry detergent, and that abysmal after-shave, but under those scents, the heady blast that was Will’s unique bouquet.

            Hannibal wanted to growl. Felt himself tighten.

            “There, let me help you,” Dr. Bloom said. 

            “Thank you but if you will just allow me,” Hannibal replied, courteously.  He lowered Will, wishing for more time to hold him, wishing for Dr. Bloom’s absence, wishing for blood and cries and the edge of pain.

            He wanted to rip Will apart.

            He wanted to protect Will.

            What a delicious, complex feast.

            Hiding a slight smile at the beauty of his Will, Hannibal reluctantly eased his arm out from under Will’s torso.  He lifted Will’s legs, one at a time, laying them along the couch. 

            The dogs nosed around him, licked Will’s hand (how Hannibal envied them that liberty!), whined until he shushed them.  Settled them with a glare.

            “So what is it? Exhaustion? Or something more?” Dr. Bloom asked, her hands busy over Will, straightening the delicious rumple of his shirt, bunched gaping over his stomach, lifting his hand onto the cushion. 

            “That and hunger. Dr. Bloom, Will has been my patient for some time now, and this event was not wholly unanticipated. I suspect Will’s talent, as you thought, has turned on him. That, combined with the frankly nauseating combination of odors and take out items I glimpsed in the kitchen have me convinced Will is not eating.”

            “Not eating?” Dr. Bloom stood and took a few steps towards the kitchen in the back of the house.  Her eyes fell on the assortment of food items Dr. Lecter had described.  Dawning comprehension drew her brows together as she turned back to Hannibal.  “Thrill Kill. Will spent too much time at each crime scene. I thought so at the time. How he must have been struggling with it – the mindset – the – repulsion.”

            “Yes.” Hannibal kept his face still, but an edge of disgust crept into his voice.  Thrill Kill had been a brute.  A creature who didn’t have the sense not to shit where he ate, nothing more.

            “So, he needs a break, for one thing. Jack’s been working him too hard, and Will’s been letting him.”

            Hannibal said nothing, didn’t disclose his agreement nor his knowledge of the tragedy quietly exploding Jack Crawford’s life.  Knowledge he knew Will shared.

            Jack’s wife had terminal cancer.

            Which was why Will hadn’t quit. Was why he wouldn’t quit.

            Loyal little mongoose, injured but still limping forward to battle cobras.

            Hannibal didn’t want Will to quit, anyway. Each step closer to the edge, was a step closer to the fall. To their consummation.

            “One thing at a time, Dr. Bloom,” Hannibal said.  “If you would please go out to your car and bring the cooler I packed, I shall deal with the unsavory abomination that is American Delivery Cuisine.”

            Dr. Bloom chuckled lightly, before picking up her keys.  She walked out the front door, leaving it cracked open behind her.

            The moment she was away, Hannibal lunged down to Will. Smelling, looking, touching, partaking with all his senses.  Hannibal let his face and hands quickly rove over Will.  He sat up, drunk on it, and let himself look.

            The gorgeous column of Will’s neck was exposed, vulnerable.  Hannibal could see the steady pulse on one side.

            When they’d first walked in, when Will had taken his glasses off and let his head fall back against the cushion, Hannibal had wanted to groan with the pain of the longing. Had allowed himself to imaging his lips against the pulse, the blood contained or spilling into his mouth.

            Hannibal glanced behind him, heard the car door close outside. Quickly, Hannibal let his hand fall across Will’s throat.  Using the edge of a finger nail, he scratched, just off center, just to the right of the adam’s apple.

            Will groaned and stirred, but Hannibal was done.  Standing, Hannibal put the fingernail into his mouth, the slight tang of the skin cells, almost imperceptible but now held in his mouth.

            The scratch didn’t bleed, but raised slightly red and livid. Hannibal’s mark. Like a promise, something he could look at, and remember. And promise.

            Hannibal strode into the kitchen, picking up pizza boxes and deli wrappers, shoving them into the trash as Dr. Bloom walked in, carrying the cooler.

            “Almost done here,” Hannibal called, shaking out another bin bag and shoving items into it. 

            “Will?” Dr. Bloom’s voice had the gentle tone one used with an injured animal.  “He’s waking,” she called to Hannibal.

            Hannibal heard the deeper murmur of Will’s voice as he shoved the remaining food into the bag and twisted it shut, containing the scent at the least.

            And now it was time to feed Will. Hiding a smile, Dr. Lecter returned to his patient’s side. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and responding! It is very energizing. :) We're nearly at the end of the story! :D


	5. Chapter 5

            Alana’s eyes were gentle on him.  Too much like a mother, and too much like a would-be lover.  Will didn’t look back, not directly, couldn’t stand the abrasiveness of her naked emotion, let his eyes lodge on the top of her left ear instead.

            “So, I fainted, then. How strong of me.” Will fought to a sitting position, then scrubbed his hands over his face.

            “You haven’t eaten, have you?” Alana asked.  “How long has it been?”

            Will heard the rustling of bags in the kitchen, knew Hannibal was clearing the refuse away.

            “Since Friday,” Will answered.

            Hannibal strode into the room.  “Meaning you ate a meal on Friday or on Thursday night?”

            Will smiled grimly at his therapist’s insight.  “Thursday night.”

            Hannibal took off his heavy coat and began to fold it fastidiously.  “And then the night terrors changed. And you were no longer able to eat.”

            Will’s voice was tight. “Yes.”

            “Three days.  Three days without food?” Alana glanced back at Hannibal, who nodded slightly as he carefully draped his coat over the stair bannister.

            “Give or take a bite here and there,” Will sighed. “I can’t keep it down.  It tastes like….”

            Hannibal waited, knowing.

            “Like Thrill Kill’s scenes,” Alana supplied, as Will shied away from the images in his mind.

            “Yes,” Will laughed, sourly.  “Yes.”  A hand came up to his neck, unconsciously easing the lingering sting of Hannibal’s slight scratch. 

            Hannibal made himself not respond.

            “I guess this is it. First I can’t sleep, or when I do its…” Will trailed off, letting his voice fade away.  His hand waved a vague dismissal of his terrors and sleep walking.  “And now I can’t eat.  I always thought my break down would be more spectacular.  But it’s not. It’s pathetic.  Ordinary.  Eating disorders”  He laughed.

            Alana’s eyes tightened in pain, and Will instantly felt her emotions: sorrow, anger, love or tenderness. It was at his admission that he’d expected a breakdown.

            He’d have to choose his words better not to hurt her.  Say what you want about Lecter’s often abrasive, confrontational tactics, or how he was inscrutable, he was, blessedly, inscrutable.  Will could say what he needed to say, usually without the slightest ripple of emotion feedback looping into him.

            It was his favorite thing about Lecter, as both a therapist and colleague.

            “My friend, our Uncle Jack has you working too hard.  This is nervous exhaustion, nothing more.  Nothing so spectacular as a breakdown, nor as mundane as an eating disorder, I assure you.”

            Hannibal walked to the green cooler.  Unzipping the lid, he pulled the beveled porcelain bowls out, arranging three on the coffee table. 

            “I….won’t be able to eat that.” Will said, looking away from the lidded bowl. “I won’t. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”

            Lecter made a tsking noise between through his teeth. He pulled immaculate cloth napkins from the cooler.

Will watched as Hannibal unpacked the cooler, arraying the white porcelain dishes on the coffee table. 

            Hannibal looked to Alana.  “I brought enough lunch for us all. I’m certain you have only had coffee this morning.”

            Alana laughed and didn’t deny the charge.  She sat opposite Will , reaching for the closest dish.

            Hannibal handed it to her, as well as a hollowware spoon and a cloth napkin. “It’s a simple repast, as I anticipated Will’s trouble. This is a bouillon of poulet, infused with carrot and homemade pasta.

            Will felt the corner of his mouth quirk up.  “Chicken noodle soup, then.”

            The skin around Hannibal’s eyes creased as he smiled. “Yes. From a particularly well-nourished bird.”

            Will allowed Hannibal to place a small tray in his lap.  His therapist had thought of everything, it seemed. 

            Hannibal shook out a cloth napkin and went to drape it over Will’s stomach.  Reaction beyond Will’s control caused him to flinch.

            “Apologies,” Hannibal said smoothly, handing the napkin to Will.

            “No, I’m sorry,” Will stammered, chastising himself for flinching away from his friend.  “I don’t know why that happened.”

            “I suspect your mind is playing tricks on you,” Hannibal assured.  “Do not give it a second thought.”

            _Yes, that’s it_ , Will thought. _But why is my brain tricking me into a fear reaction of Hannibal?_

            Hannibal didn’t acknowledge Will’s second apology.  He simply picked up his own dish, and sat on the cushion next to Will, a surprising choice since the other armchair remained vacant.

            Will shook his head.  What did it matter where Hannibal chose to sit?

            Taking a deep breath, Will dipped the spoon into the bowl.  He lifted it to his mouth. 

            The first bite was delicious. The shredded chicken, the broth, a hint of spice, the noodle. Will sighed in relief and closed his eyes.

            Blood. Salt and sweat. Gristle and offal.

            Will started to cough. He lifted the napkin to his mouth. His shudders threatened to upend the bowl over his lap.

            In a moment, Hannibal had lifted the tray away. Even as his stomach clenched uncontrollably, Will realized this was why Hannibal had sat too close.

            “I’m sorry,” Will coughed between spasms.  “S-s-sorry.”

            Hannibal shook his head again, but there was no condemnation in his gaze.

            “My dear fellow. You must stop apologizing.”

            Will stopped coughing, sat back depleted.

            “Will, as your therapist, I must tell you there is nothing insurmountable here.”

            Will smiled.  “Oh good. I feel much better.”

            Alana stood and walked over to Will.  She sat next to him on the cushion formerly occupied by Lecter, reached out and touched his leg.  “Will, we may need to consider hospitalization. You might need more controlled surroundings, guided care. An IV, for a start.”

            From Hannibal, Will felt a sudden blast of pure anger. Will glanced up at his therapist, but found only those same, inscrutable dark eyes watching.

            “My dear Dr. Bloom,” Hannibal said.  “Let us not borrow trouble, and let us not alarm Will.  I’m certain he is made more anxious by your talk of hospitals.”

            Alana frowned but nodded.  She didn’t leave Will’s side, however.

            “Will, I know you will not like this, but I need you to look into my eyes,” Hannibal said.

            Alana’s eyes widened in surprise.

            Will coughed, and glanced at Hannibal’s singularly dark eyes.  Will glanced away.

            “No, I need you to keep looking. This is how we are going to get over this, Will.”

            Will felt his arms tighten, the skin on the back of his neck lifted. 

            “I can’t.  I’m sorry.”

            He felt ashamed of his inability to do as his doctor, hell, his _friend_ had asked.  After all their kindness. 

            “I _can’t._ ”

            Dr. Bloom, touched Will’s knee gently.  “It’s okay, Will.”

            Again, Will imagined a bolt of rage from Dr. Lecter.  With dawning comprehension, Will realized the rage was in response to Dr. Bloom’s touch.

            “Oh god, I’m losing it,” Will said aloud, chiding himself internally for imagining that his friend was _jealous_.

            “Never fear, good Will.  I will not let you fall far,” Dr. Lecter replied, strangely, and yet with the most warmth Will had ever heard in his voice.  “Perhaps you may try some calming tea, and then sleep a bit, and then we will try again.”

            Will paused, and then nodded.

            Hannibal went to prepare the tea.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal rids himself of an impediment....

           In the kitchen, Hannibal put his phone away and put the water on to boil.  In a few minutes, Dr. Bloom would cease to be an obstacle, one way or another.

            Abigail would fake a panic attack and would demand to need to see her therapist to talk.  The care facility would page Dr. Bloom, and she would go.

            Or, if she did not, Hannibal would place a powerful sedative in her tea.

            Either way, she would no longer be a problem.

            Hannibal allowed the smile to crawl all the way across his face.

            In the next room, Dr. Bloom’s gentle murmurings to Will halted as her phone rang. 

            Hannibal walked into the sitting room as she excused herself to take the call and walked out onto the front porch.

            “Your tea will be ready in just a moment,” Hannibal told Will.

            “Thank you,” Will’s voice was faint. 

            “I apologize that we are taxing your hospitality.”  Hannibal bowed slightly at Will before he picked up his coat.  In the pocket were stowed the various pharmaceuticals he usually carried. “There are few things more draining than the good intentions of others.”

            Will chuckled, then laughed. Ah, there it was.  What an enchantment Will’s rare laugh was. Thoroughly disarming, as if Will was himself amazed at his capacity for mirth.  A wide, wolfish grin surprising on his handsome, boyish face. Quite raffish.

            Intoxicating.  So much so, that Hannibal nearly forgot his purpose.

            Hannibal smiled, sharing the joke with his Will.

            “No, I’m glad,” Will’s eyes darted to Hannibal’s for the briefest instance.  “Thank you for coming.”

            Hannibal bowed slightly again, this time without self-mockery.

            “It is not a crime to need something,” Hannibal reassured.

            If only Will had the slightest notion of his own, over-taxed body’s needs.  Or of Hannibal’s.

            Dr. Bloom re-entered the small sitting room. “Will, Hannibal, I’m so sorry, Abigail has had a ….spell of some kind….she’s demanding me, she says she needs to talk, after everything she’s been through-”

            A flash of emotional pain in Will’s eyes. The underlying tang of guilt.  A slight flinch as his eyes tightened, as his fingers on his right hand dug into his thigh. 

            Hannibal moved his draped coat before the front of his body.

            “I’m sorry,” Alana was saying, as she again sat on Hannibal’s place beside Will. “I must go to her – Dr. Lecter? Perhaps you could stay with Will and I’ll come back for you later?”          

            “Certainly,” Dr. Lecter replied. “If Abigail wasn’t asking for you, I could go to her.”

            “You can both go,” Will’s tone was edged with guilt.  “I’m not going anywhere. Just come back later.  I’m sure I’ll be fine once I get some rest, that’s all.”

            Alana and Hannibal exchanged a wry, dismissive glance. 

            “Sorry, Will,” Alana stood.  “Dr. Lecter, I’ll return as soon as I can.”

            “Take all the time you need,” Hannibal said, keeping his tone neutral.

            “Rest,” Alana took Will’s hand.  “Try to rest.”

            Will nodded.

            Alana left.

            “Do you think she’s alright?” Will asked, watching the door as it closed.  Thinking of Abigail, and his guilt in making her an orphan.

            “I think that the best thing for Abigail is what is happening right now,” Dr. Lecter said, thinking of Abigail taking control, manipulating, growing confident in her own ability to deceive.

            Hannibal took a slight step closer to Will, closer than was strictly necessary, just to make the younger man have to lift his chin that almost infinitesimal degree higher.  The angle, making Will in his beauty reminiscent of a saint in ecstasy, the vision of the god before him.

            Hannibal made a mental note to sketch the image later. 

            “Will, the water boils. I must prepare you tea.  I would like your permission to give you a sedative as well.” In his tone, Hannibal implied that the sedative would be slight.  Negligible.  But he was careful not to explicitly state this implication. 

            Both he and Will required the release a heavy dose of sedative would allow.

            Will’s eyes winced, and skittered to the dogs, curled on their various beds by the fireplace. “I….don’t like drugs.  I don’t like to have to stay asleep.  If I-”  he coughed, self-consciousness grasping his throat.  “If I…need to wake up.”

            “I assure you, Will, as your friend, you will not have bad dreams while I am here.”

            Will smiled grimly.  “You’re going to hold my hand?”

            Hannibal smiled, politely in return, showing that he also found the idea humorous, while his mind’s eye captured and poured over the same image. 

            “I will be here, and if I see you are having distress, I will guide you through.  Dreamers are not immune to outside stimuli. If you become ensnared in bad dreams, I will help you out of them.”

            Hannibal kept his face still, reassuring, completely at ease with the seemingly innocuous words he had chosen.

            A clash of emotions showed on Will’s face.  Longing for respite from his body, fatigue, hunger, fear of the drug.  The desire to trust Lecter. 

            Lecter’s heart leapt and seized as the conflict on Will’s face released.  As Will looked up, having decided to trust but unable to banish the apprehension, the choice of trust all the more potent in the face of the fear.

            “Alright,” Will said, nodding, the tight, sorrowful acknowledgement of a necessary evil.

            Hannibal bowed, this time allowing gratitude to show on his face. Gratitude that Will had made the right choice and Hannibal’s acknowledgment of what that choice had cost the younger man.

            Will let his head fall back against the cushion again.  His hands still gripped his thighs.  With his eyes closed, he looked like a tormented statue, damp curls on his forehead, glasses incongruous and lovely.

            Hannibal let his eyes move over Will’s face, and down his throat as Hannibal pretended to feel in the pockets of his coat. 

            “I shall return with your tea in a moment,” Hannibal said.

            Will nodded.

            Hannibal’s eyes caressed the scratch he’d placed on Will’s neck earlier.  A promise of more.  More he intended to allow soon.

            Hannibal went to fetch the tea and the sedative.

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: things are about to get somewhat non-con/rape. Not sure how much so, but fair warning just in case that's not your bag.... 
> 
> Cheers! and thanks for your reviews/encouragement. :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will senses the real danger....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Getting Non-con-y herein....

 

            Will Graham reached for the mug, grateful as always for Hannibal’s foresight.  If his colleague had brought a teacup and saucer, Will wouldn’t have been able to hold it without it rattling against the saucer.

            Why were his nerves so jangled?  It had been bad before, true, but since he’d agreed to take the sedative, it was almost as if he’d had an adrenalin dump.

            All the more reason to drink the damn thing.  His body and mind were ever more at war, and all for nothing.

            “Thank you,” Will said, steadying the mug with two hands.  He bought it to his lips.

            “Do be careful, it is hot,” Dr. Lecter warned as he again chose the cushion right beside Will.

            This time, Will managed not to flinch overtly at the man’s proximity, though his body tried. He reassured himself again that Lecter chose that seat given Will’s own pathetic inability to care for himself.  No doubt Hannibal feared Will would tip the scalding hot beverage over his legs.

            “Thanks for the warning,” Will murmured, pursing his lips and blowing across the top of the steaming water.

            Imperceptibly, Hannibal stiffened beside him, but when Will glanced at his face, it was smooth as a winter pond.

            Will moved his eyes away, focused on Hannibal’s tie, the wide double Windsor knot, distinctive, elegant, and like the man, excessive.

            Will blew across the hot tea again.  Again, the sense that next to him, Hannibal had drawn tight as a bowstring.

            It was disconcerting in the extreme. Will told himself it was irrational, even as he realized he believed that he sensed _something_.

            “Do try a sip,” Hannibal said. “I find that ginger aids a turbulent stomach. You will feel better once you have drunk, I assure you.”

            Will took a small sip, swallowed it grimacing as the tang of blood hit.  “I’m sorry I can’t savor the tea,” Will apologized.

            “William. I have told you, no more apologies.”

            Will nodded and took another sip.

            Hannibal gestured to the small boat motor, propped up in the corner.  “Is that a project or a memento?”

            Will took a large drink and grimaced, swallowing quickly before the taste could register. “Both.”

            “The boatyards; inescapable.  A broken motor. How apt that seems,” Hannibal’s voice, light and warm, as if trying to reassure a spooked animal.

            Will shrugged.  “You’re my paddle, right?”

            Hannibal smiled, but it didn’t reach his obsidian eyes.

            Will fought a fever-like shiver.  The intensity in Hannibal’s gaze was overpowering him.

            _Desire. Fascination. Yearning for. . ._

            “What?” Will asked, before he could stop himself.  “What do you want?”

            Hannibal’s smile was, again, light.  His eyes crinkled with a smile.  “Dear Will, what do we not want?  Are we not all creatures bound up with needs and desires?”

            Will shook his head.  Despite going slow, despite taking only a little, he felt the spinning disassociation of the drug beginning.

            As if sensing Will’s predicament, Dr. Lecter leaned forward.  “You’re feeling it?”

            “It’s…..” Will struggled, felt a heaviness pervading his limbs.  “S-s-strong.”  Fear made a traitor of his tongue.

            “I’m sorry,” Hannibal reached out, placing his hand over Will’s on the mug handle.  “I assumed you would only be able to manage a little of the tea, so I did brew it strong.  Now come, one last drink will set you well.”

            Hannibal’s cool hand gripped over Will’s weaker one.  Hannibal lifted Will’s hand, working his arm like a puppeteer, bringing the mug to Will’s mouth. 

            “Would you like to make that shape of your mouth again?” Hannibal’s voice was lower, husky. 

            Will blinked back confusion at the words, and the tone of predatory desire.

            “Wh-wh-what?” he asked, weakly resisting Hannibal’s grip as the mug hovered near his mouth.

             “I said it would be a shame to burn your mouth again.”  Hannibal’s tone, soothing as the pressure of his hand over Will’s increased. 

            Will pulled his head back, away from the mug. “I’ve had enough, I think.”

            Hannibal abruptly let go of Will’s hand.  “Certainly, shall I take the mug?”

            “Yes, please.” Will’s hand felt like a balloon without the pressure of Hannibal’s over his. He handed over the mug.

            Hannibal stood.  “I’ll be back in a moment.”  He walked into the kitchen.

            Will sat, feeling a powerful sense of unease.  First, that the mug had been dosed so strongly and Hannibal had said nothing to him.  What if he’d taken a larger drink?

            But then, it was so hot, Hannibal had to know he’d only be able to take a little.

            But if he’d had more….

            Second, and more discomfiting, was Hannibal’s awareness of Will. And what he’d said.  He’d said “shape of your mouth,” Will was certain.

            Of course, Will was also certain that he dined on blood and human flesh.

            The world and his thoughts rippled like the waves of a weak tide, ebbing farther away as he sought understanding.

            Will struggled to sit forward on the couch, acknowledging with a wince that he must respect his instincts, even if they lied to him.

            Now he just had to figure out a way to leave the house or make Hannibal leave it.

            Will was in no shape to leave, but he’d feel safer on the porch, even though it was removed from the main road.

            Wavering, he stood.  Already light-headed from lack of food, Will became even more confused by the sedative Hannibal had given him.  Will stumbled, reaching out for the wall.  Propped up somewhat, he swayed and made awkward progress forward to where the wall became the banister of the stairway.  He draped his arm over the railing as he panted and fought back unconsciousness.

            “My god! What are you doing?” Hannibal was at his side in an instant, taking his free arm and striving to offer support.

            “I’m sorry,” Will flinched away, shuddering uncontrollably at Hannibal’s touch.  “I’m s-s-sorry. Pl-please don’t t-touch me.”

            Hannibal let go instantly.  Will’s gazed careened wildly in the grip of his empathy, augmented by the drug.  He felt nauseous, like his whole body was a single nerve laying exposed to the open air.

            “I-I,” Will coughed, shuddering away from the depthless black eyes that watched him, feeling their weight like pressure on that exposed nerve, even as he couldn’t meet the stare.  “I want to g-go onto the porch. Fr-fresh air, I can’t breathe, I need fr-fresh,” Will started gasping, hating the sound as the panic bore down, as his systems shut down, focus narrowing like a pinprick in a blackout curtain.

            Hannibal was a threat.  With every cell of his body screaming, Will recognized it, and didn’t seek to order the knowledge, or make it fit into a logical pattern.

            Hannibal was a killer. Will was in mortal danger.

            Will shoved off the railing, lunging at the door.

            Hannibal easily beat him to it, shoving his shoulder and arm before Will, blocking it. “Will, you need to rest, not to exert yourself so.”

            Will’s breath sawed in his lungs. A dump of pure adrenalin beat back the edges of the drug haze.

            “I will rest,” he panted, reeling slightly. Sweat popped on his forehead and arms as cold chills marched over his skin.  “After you leave. Please.” A desperate last effort to appeal to Lecter’s civility. To pretend to know nothing, to be this wreck of a person, nothing more. Oblivious, not a threat.

            Lecter stared at him, compelling him to look, to see. 

            Lecter wanted him to _see_.

            The stag stood before him, watching Will through Lecter’s obsidian eyes.

            “No, no!” Will struggled back, yelling the denial. The stag lowered pronged antlers, dark eyes pinning him. The stag’s antler’s captured him, digging points into his upper arms.  More antler points poised over his heart, his lungs, his stomach.

            The stag’s black plumage ruffled in the wind.  A curved antler pressed to the artery in Will’s throat.

            Lecter pressed a hand into Will’s throat.  His other hand seized Will’s upper arm as he drove him back. Will fell onto the stairwell, Lecter landing on top of him.

            “No, no.” Will battered at Lecter as the blood-choke dimmed his vision.  “No!” He scratched at Lecter’s arms. 

            “Shhhhh,” Lecter whispered as Will’s awareness faded.  “No bad dreams, I promise.”

            Will’s heart, fluttering in panic, tried to wake him.

            Will gasped, as his arms fell off Hannibal.  As he passed out, he felt the other man’s lips press into his cheek. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: RAPE/NON-CON
> 
> Hannibal has his way.

 

            Lecter let his lips rest on Will’s cheek, feeling the slackening of Will’s limbs as he passed into unconsciousness. 

            The tip of Lecter’s tongue slipped out, tasting the salt tang of sweat and fear.  He sat up, still holding Will’s arm.  Straddling the younger man, Lecter looked down at his prize.

            A cacophony of barking finally penetrated the haze of Lecter’s overwhelming desire.  A few swift kicks and sharp words reestablished order.  Lecter returned to the stairwell where Will sprawled.

            His eyelids fluttered as his head lolled to one side. 

            Blood chokes don’t last long, and the residue of epinephrine in his system would battle the sedative.

            No time to waste on sentimentality, on looking as much as he desired to look.

            Hannibal made himself take a mental picture.  Replayed the sense memory of his lips on Will’s cheek, his tongue tasting his unique flavor.  Then Hannibal went to work. 

            First he texted Dr. Bloom, telling her their patient was finally resting.  Then he asked that she call or text before she returned, as he wished for her to pick up a few supplies Will needed.

            That would give him fair warning.

            Second, he went into the kitchen and brought out the now lukewarm tea.  Taking an oral syringe out of another coat pocket, he sat beside Will and methodically force-fed him the rest of the brew, squirting the syringe in the back of Will’s throat, tipping his head back and closing his mouth to effect the autonomic swallow-response he required.

            And finally, he had to decide.  He had bought them only a small fragment of time.  Stolen from the reality of their unique relationship.

            Everything was still salvageable.  Though he stood poised on the precipice, he could take that critical step back.

            Or he could fall, and take Will with him.

            It took some time to decide, but in the end, Will’s unique mind, distinct in its call to Hannibal’s own genius, decided him.

            It was too soon to end it.

            This short hour or hours would not be enough time, but he was not prepared to take the younger man and set off the manhunt that was sure to follow.

            It was all too hasty.

            Hannibal must make do with what he could _safely_ take now, under the cover of the drug and Will’s current instability.

            It was….an appetizer….not the main course.  But as in the most palatable, orchestrated of meals, the appetizer was a masterpiece that presaged the rest of the meal.  Distinct notes that would enhance and echo the flavors, textures, and fragrances of the other courses. 

            His appetite whetted, Hannibal pulled Will’s arm, lifting his torso over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry.

            Upstairs it took only a moment to find Will’s bed.  Hannibal gently lowered his charge into it, regretting that time did not allow for a fresh change of sheets or even a bath.

            Hannibal made another note in his mind, like an accomplished chef adjusting the complex orchestration of a meal, liking the image of Will being bathed in a broth of milk-white water, like royalty. 

            Careful in his state of resounding joy, careful lest he rip a button off, Lecter gently unbuttoned first Will’s shirt, then his abysmal khaki pants. 

            Delectable skin and slender panes of muscle rose and fall with each of Will’s drug-shallowed breaths.

            Hannibal lowered his head, slowly, making himself wait, making himself sip only, with his most refined sense.

            Even covered in stale sweat and the lingering offense of cheap cologne, Will’s scent was intoxicating.

            And although he was most attracted to Will’s remarkable mind, there was a baser, animalistic attraction to the rest of the man.  To this pale and slender, beautifully-proportioned body sprawled before him.

            Hannibal let himself taste, with tongue and lip and the gentlest of nibbles.

            No marks.  He must leave no marks.

            Perhaps one mark.

            Will stirred.  His hands fell clumsily onto Hannibal – one on his head, the other on his shoulder. 

            Hannibal lifted his mouth from Will’s flesh.  Looked up into his face.

            Will’s eyes fluttered, opening to reveal whites, rolled-up in his head. Then the blue irises pulled down, hazy but then snapping into focus on Hannibal, spread over him, pinning him with arms and torso and mouth.

            Will moaned.  His hands ineffectually pushed at Hannibal, fumbling against his shoulder and head.

            “Shhhh,” Hannibal urged, allowing himself to place another lick along Will’s ribs. “No bad dreams.”

            Will’s eyes rolled up again. Hannibal nipped at Will, wanting to gaze into his blue eyes again.

            “Wh-wh-wh-” Will’s fear-stutter, his eyes, shuttered, then opened, as he battled the twin pulls of panic and the soporific of the drug. “What- wh-wh-”

            He began to shudder, groaning, almost an exact replica of the beautiful, overwhelmed empathetic response to sharing first the death of Abigail’s mother, then shooting Hobbs, then suffering the throes of pain and encroaching death from Abigail herself.

            The moment when Hannibal had first recognized that his interest in Will was not exclusively that of a colleague, or even a connoisseur. When Hannibal had first apprehended the implications of Will’s gift, and how it could feed Hannibal’s own insatiable desire.

            Will shuddered, trembled, and struggled slightly.

            Hannibal climbed over him.  Straddled his twisting hips. Will’s hands fell to Hannibal’s chest, then collapsed onto his own torso, for all the world looking like a creature pulling into itself to minimize injury.

            Hannibal felt himself grow harder, if that was possible.  At the same time, an inexplicable, alien tenderness pierced his heart.

            “No, Will.  Don’t fear. Look at me, and don’t fear.”  The words themselves, god-like, a powerful aphrodisiac.

            Will rolled his head on the pillow, still stuttering protestations of fear and denial.  Lost in the throes of his response to the lethal reality pulsating through the being poised over him.

            Acting on the twin goads of instinct and desire, Hannibal gently removed Will’s spectacles.  He placed them on the empty pillow beside them.  Then, still straddling his writhing Will, Hannibal unbuttoned his shirt.  He opened his bespoke cufflinks, first one, then the other.

            As Hannibal leaned forward to deposit his cufflinks on the pillow beside Will’s spectacles, his erection pressed into Will’s stomach.

Will’s eyes snapped open.  His hand fisted and glanced off the side of Hannibal’s head.

Hannibal fell slightly off center, scattering his cuff links across the counterpane and onto the floor.

“No, no.” Hannibal could not stop the harsh edge of desire in his voice as Will bucked beneath him.  Catching Will’s wrists in his hand, Hannibal subdued him.

“Shhhhh, Will.”  Hannibal soothed, Pushing Wills arms over his head.  Taking his unknotted tie from around his neck, Hannibal bound Will’s wrists to the headboard.

“Stop-st-st-st,” Will coughed more than he spoke, shuddered more than he struggled.

Hannibal took off his fine linen shirt and tossed it onto the floor. Torso bare, Hannibal lowered himself onto Will.  The slide of skin over skin enrapturing to Lecter, but nearly unbearable to his captured one, who shuddered and choked at the overstimulation. 

            Hannibal had no doubt that were it not for the drug, Will wouldn’t be able to accept the least of his caresses.

            As it was, as Hannibal slowly lowered his weight onto the younger man, Will’s eyes rolled and jumped, eyelids fluttering at the insistent prod of Hannibal against his hip.

            The weight stilled Will, as it would a panicked animal, constrained in the moment of fight or flight, unable to fly, stilled by the abandonment of self to fate, to death.

            Sudden peace.  Sudden stillness.

            Will moaned, but stopped his struggles.  His eyelids closed.

            Hannibal tasted his jaw, the curve of his shoulder. 

            His mouth.

            Hannibal propped himself over Will, looking down into his now submissive, slumber-closed face.  Blue-tinged smudges under his eyes, skin almost preternaturally pale. Tension still in the brow, the tightness around his mouth.

            Hannibal paused, enjoying the complex mix of pride and frustration he felt towards Will.  Pride that the man’s gift, even diminished by mental strain and physical exhaustion, still cut to the truth.  Was incisive and wickedly perceptive, that he had sensed the danger of Hannibal.

            Frustration that Will couldn’t trust.  Couldn’t yet see past the danger to the underlying truth that Hannibal would never harm him.

            Wouldn't he?

            Hannibal had to laugh, panting slightly against Will’s chest. His breath raising gooseflesh on Will.

            Clever mongoose. Hannibal hardly knew himself or of what he was capable.

            Not enough time to find out today.

            Appetizer only.

            Hannibal set about to savor his Will.

            No marks.  Or perhaps, just one.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: rape/non-con

     The sensations, overwhelming and yet muted, like Will had receded in his head, a tide pulling farther away from the shore, minimizing impact, his body and mind in concert to protect him.

      A weight, unbearable on his chest, along the length of his body.  Warm breath on his neck, on his face.

      Will opened his eyes.

      Saw Hannibal, poised above him, laying atop him.  Felt the warmth of the man’s skin on his.  The trail of his lips on his skin.

Will moaned and closed his eyes, brain skittering in panic and unwanted arousal.

     Felt it, and his mind immediately walled his response away, as he felt Hannibal’s arousal, naked against him.

     Will shuddered, closed his eyes, the crash of sensation warring with the drug-induced haze.

     No, no. It wasn’t happening.  Just as it wasn’t blood he drank, nor offal he’d tried to eat.

     The weight, immovable on him.

     Will dragged his drug-heavy eyes open again.  It was the stag, raven-feathered, crushing him.  Come for him at last, pressing into him, rigid prongs pressing into him, clasping him, digging into soft flesh, and him immobile.

     The stag, black, with coal-dark eyes devouring him.  Breath blown across his skin. 

     The stag’s weight shifted, lowered, and the creature began to devour him.

     Will cried out, eyes ricocheting around the room _his room_ the barking of dogs at the door, answering his cry, scratching, barking.

     Hannibal’s sharp voice, silencing them.

     Will struggled to lift his head from the mattress, tried to lower his arms to push the imprisoning weight off his ribs, off his hips.

His hands were bound to the headboard with something strong and silken.

     Panic battered in Will’s chest as he wildly tugged at the bonds, simultaneously bucking his hips as much as he could.

     “Shhhh,” The stag again, in his mind.  Suddenly the dark eyes became Lecter’s, the face morphing into the angular planes of Hannibal’s etched-in-stone countenance.

     “No bad dreams, I promise.”  The words his colleague had spoken seeming eons ago, when Will had agreed to take the sedative.

     “I-I-I-” Will hated the stutter of fear, the choking sensation of being immobilized.

     “This is not a bad dream,” Hannibal’s voice, the Stag’s eyes, pinning him.

      A hand trailed down Will’s chest.

      Better to wall it away, to go into the drug haze.  Escape.

      A tongue swirling on his skin as the creature tasted him again.  It trailed down his skin, followed by chills marching in its wake, then uncontrollable shudders. Then a pressure, along his side, along the floating ribs, a wet pressure, suction, a mouth, pulling at him, gaping.  Sucking so hard it hurt.

     Will struggled to build forts in his mind, at the same time his body fought to break through the forts, to respond to the overwhelming stimuli, autonomic, uncontrolled, painful.

     Pleasurable.

     A hand on him.  Gripping tightly his painful hardness.

     It broke him. The touch, a violation. Will, a bundle of raw sensation, convinced he was dying. Ready for it.

     Eternity, a moment, drawn out and building to a shattering of himself.  Breaking, everything spilling into nothingness leaving only self-loathing.

    After, awareness washed out of him, drilling persistently through the top of his skull. He barely felt the sting of a needle in his arm and the subsequent tender swipes of a rough cloth across the wetness on his stomach and chest.

    Will allowed the needle to lead him, let the drug take him father in his head, no longer wondered if he was the prisoner of a madman, or the madman a prisoner in his own head.

    He felt…accepting of it. Of the end, the fracture of his mind. No more struggling, no more pitying looks.  No more wondering when he would fall over the edge…it was all over now.

    The stag watched him, its presence warm beside him.  Love in his eyes.

    Love.

    And possession.

    Will let his eyes close for good this time.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE FINAL CHAPTER!

           Hannibal carefully cleaned up afterwards. He let himself first stare, drinking in Will’s sated helplessness, the evidence of the response he’d fought but had been unable to withhold.

The beautiful mark, Hannibal’s mouth having pulled the blood to the surface of pale skin, in great dark circles, bruising extensive over Will’s lower ribs.  Purple black, edged in red, then grey-yellow.  Hannibal’s heart lifted and expanded just looking at his mark, remembering the feeling, mouth open wide, tongue swirling on Will’s shuddering skin as he sucked.  As he pulled Will’s flesh into his mouth, tasting as strongly as possible without using his teeth.

            Incredulously, Hannibal laughed as his body responded to the memory. 

            Will brought out the insatiable glutton in him.

            Recklessly, Hannibal let himself take a picture of naked, drugged Will.  Let himself  take another picture of his bruised ribs, and of his completely relaxed face and untroubled brow.  Beautiful, in rare utter stillness, his Will was like a sculpture.

            Then Hannibal reluctantly cleaned and dressed him.  Then he tidied and aired out the room.  Finally he restored his own impeccable appearance before going downstairs to wait for Dr. Bloom.

            When she climbed the porch, Hannibal was there to greet her at the door.

            “How is he?” Alana asked, handing over the small box of medical supplies he’d requested.

            “He is in much needed slumber.  He agreed to take a sedative.”

            “Oh!” Alana couldn’t mask her surprise that anxious Will Graham would allow himself to be sedated.

            “I convinced him that I would not allow any bad dreams,” Hannibal said, bowing slightly in self-deprecating irony.  “But his body definitely knows better than he what he needs.”

            “Yes, I imagine it does.”

            Together, they climbed the stairs and went into Will’s room.  Hannibal stood, forcing his face to remain still and untroubled as Alana sat on the bed next to Will. 

            She took his wrist in her hands, and took his pulse. Nodding in satisfaction, she smiled at Lecter.  “That’s as relaxed as I’ve ever seen him.”

            Lecter inclined his head in acknowledgment, uncaring if he looked self-satisfied.

            Together they set up the IV.  Lecter allowed Dr. Bloom to place the line in Will’s arm, allowed her to hesitantly brush Will’s curls off his forehead, as if she was feeling his temperature.

            She also longed to steal moments from Will. The difference was, she didn’t possess the strength of will to allow herself to take them.

            They hung a saline bag, agreed to slowly drip in a mild anti-anxiety medication, then went downstairs to wait.

            Time passed slowly. Alana fed the wretched dogs, Hannibal checked on Will.  On his third trip upstairs, Will had twisted in the bed, as if he’d been struggling with an unseen attacker.

            “He will wake soon,” Hannibal called downstairs, gently. 

            Will flinched at Hannibal’s voice. 

            Hannibal allowed himself one faint regretful sigh as Dr. Bloom walked in.  She pulled a chair over beside the bed and sat waiting at Will’s side.

            Hannibal placed himself near the door, an old armchair that clearly was regularly inhabited by dogs.

            Hannibal placed a t-shirt of Will’s over the cushion before he sat.

            They waited.  Will murmured and tossed in his sleep a few times.  Alana touched his arm and murmured reassurances.

            Finally, Will blinked, then opened his eyes. 

            Like a shot, he sat up and shoved his entire body back, against the headboard. 

            Alana jumped at the unexpected movement.  Will thrust his arms out in front of his body, trying to hold back what had already happened.

            “Will,” Alana said.  “I’m here.  We’re here.”

            Hannibal schooled his face, certain to project only innocent care and calm.  “Will, you are safe in your own bed.  You have been asleep for almost six hours.”

            More or less.

            Will looked around, mystified.  Fear and confusion radiated from him in nearly palpable waves. His fingers dropped to his neck, the collar of his shirt, the sleeve, his pants.

            Stunned to be clothed at all, much less in his same clothes from before the dreaming began.

            Hannibal kept his face carefully neutral.  Encouraging, reassuring, and placid.

            “I,” Will paused, picked his spectacles up from the bedside table, put them on.  He felt at the IV needle taped to his arm.  “I’m…here.”

            Hannibal let himself walk slowly a few paces forward.  “Yes. I gave you a sedative, and it panicked you at first. You tried to leave the house, and I had to restrain you until the sedative took full effect. Do you remember?”

            Warring impulses struggled for dominance inside Hannibal.  He wanted the haze of the drug to recede, leaving only vague unease, leaving Will confused but accepting, once again, of Hannibal as an unremarkable colleague.

            He also wanted Will to remember, in vivid detail.

            Will flinched as Hannibal drew closer, then he smiled apologetically, unable to meet Hannibal’s eyes.

            It would be just as before, then.

            “I remember something,” Will’s arms drew in tight to his body, as if shielding his ribs from fists.  “I remember you attacking me.”

            His eyes, accusing.  His tone, fearful, with an undercurrent of embarrassment.

            Hannibal inclined his head slightly.  “Apologies, Will, you were in no condition to leave.  In good conscience I had to restrain you. You did struggle.  It was unpleasant, but sadly unavoidable.”

            Strong eye contact, Hannibal put regret in to every line of his body as he watched Will.

            Will’s eyes, ricocheted around the room.  His hand pressed, rubbing perhaps unconsciously at his bruised side.

            “Do you feel better?” Alana asked.  “Do you feel up to trying some food?”

            Will nodded tightly.  “I’m….sore. I feel like I…” His voice trailed off.  His eyes wavered between his bent knees and the floor.

            “No doubt you feel as if you have gone a few rounds with a superior fighter,” Hannibal supplied smoothly. “It is to be expected given the circumstances.”

            Will nodded.

            “Dr. Bloom, we might try the broth again?” Hannibal prodded, subtly dismissing her to warm Will’s bowl.

            “Certainly.  I’ll be right back, Will.”

            Will nodded, careful not to look up.

            Dr. Bloom left.  Hannibal stepped forward and placed himself in her chair at Will’s side.

            Will flinched almost imperceptibly, as if his entire body tried to pull away slightly at Hannibal’s proximity.

            Hannibal stifled a smile.

            “You slept quietly.  For the most part.  Once or twice I helped you through dark things.”

            Will nodded.  “I remember some…dreams.”  His voice, drawn tight like a wire.

            Hannibal folded his hands over his lap. “Do you recall any specifics?”

            Will shook his head, hand unconsciously chaffing at his wrist, perhaps remembering the sensation of being bound. “No…it’s like…like it’s a nightmare, and I can see only the edges of it as it diminishes. It was so vivid, I remember that…but it’s fading now.”

            “Giving way to this reality,” Hannibal commented.

            “Yes.” Will shoved his hands into his hair, then rubbed the gooseflesh prickling his arms.  “I’m s-sore, my muscles, it’s like I’ve been…st-st-struggling.”

            “You have been at a nearly violent level of tension for days, and just now your body has had its first relief.  Of course you are fatigued.”

            “It’ll be the next fitness craze.  Body by neurosis,” Will joked, weakly.

            Hannibal allowed himself to laugh, delighting in Will’s grim sense of humor even in the face of anguished emotions.

            “I….” This time Will’s voice trailed off from concentration, not stuttering. “I think I dreamt of Hobbs.  The stag.”

            Hannibal felt a violent surge of anger.  Jealousy, primal and uncontrolled leapt through his bones.

            “The stag isn’t necessarily Hobbs.  We’ve spoken of this possibility before,” he said, proud of his even tone.

            Alana could be heard on the stair.

            Hannibal consoled himself with the thought that Will’s desire to say that he’d dreamt of Hobbs showed the extreme depths to which he was dependent on Lecter the doctor, the friend.  It was a way of building a fort in his mind.

            Time enough to claim the rest of him later.

            Alana entered, carrying the tray with the bowl of soup. 

            “I’ll take that,” Hannibal said, smoothly taking the tray and placing it on the bed before Will.

            “I may not be able to eat,” Will cautioned. “I feel jumpy…uneasy.”

            “We’ll just try, shall we?” Hannibal asked, handing the spoon to Will. 

            Will sat up and leaned forward.  He moaned slightly and rubbed his ribs where Hannibal had left his marks.

            “What is it?” Alana asked.

            “My ribs,” Will said.

            “Yes, you might have some contusions. When you panicked and tried to leave, you were too weak. You fell onto the stair.  I’m sorry I allowed it to happen.”

            “I think you saved me from worse, it sounds like,” Will replied, turning Hannibal’s apology into his own.

            Dear Will.

            Moving gingerly, Will sat up, each careful movement telegraphing aches that called to a savage joy gathering in Hannibal’s heart.

            Will took a spoonful of broth into his mouth.  It was only a moment before he was coughing and gagging as before.

            “Sorry. Sorry,” Will spluttered.

             Hannibal allowed himself to reach out.  To lightly touch his fingers to Will’s hand.  Will jerked and started like a colt

            “I think I can help you, friend, if you will but allow me.”  Hannibal added _again_ in his mind.

            “What?”  Will shuddered, moving slightly away, but leaving his wrist in Hannibal’s loose grasp.

             “You will need to look into my eyes.  Feel what I feel as I eat,” Hannibal said.  _Feel what I feel when I feed you_ , he thought.

              Fear made Will’s voice crack.  “Fine.”  Knowing if he remained unable to eat much longer, the only recourse would be institutionalization.

              Hannibal stood and stepped forward.  Making a blade with his hand, he gestured to the bedside beside Will.  Asking permission to sit there.

             A gorgeous dance, role reversal of their recent interlude.

             Will nodded tightly and scooted back, making room and leaning himself against the headboard.

             Hannibal lifted and removed the tray. Holding the bowl and spoon, he sat beside Will.  He dipped the spoon into the broth, held it before his own mouth and waited for Will’s eyes to meet his.

             Will glanced up, then immediately down again.  Then he took a deep breath and made his eyes lift again.

             Hannibal put the cleanest emotions he could into his eyes.  The most surprising ones. Care.  Warmth.  The esteem of a respected colleague.

             Will blinked in sudden surprise, then let out a pent up breath as relief flooded him.

             He’d been afraid to see the stag, Hannibal realized, and just as quickly let the realization flow out of him, so Will would not pick up even the faintest reflection of his fear in Hannibal’s face.

             Hannibal sniffed the aroma of the broth, let the clear pleasure he felt in this meal shine through his eyes.  Hannibal put the spoon in his mouth, took the broth and showed only savory delight in his eyes.

             Will sighed in longing.

             Hannibal dipped the spoon into the broth again.  Brought it to his mouth again.  This time, he put satisfaction in his gaze.  Satiety.

             Will’s tongue moistened his lips slightly.  His huger suddenly upon him and profound.

             Hannibal dipped the spoon down again.  This time, he brought it to Will’s mouth. 

             Unreservedly, Will took the soup.  Tasted it.  Swallowed.  Opened his mouth for more.

             Hannibal allowed satisfaction to creep back into his gaze.  Gave another spoon to Will, let his eyes drop for a moment to see Will’s mouth close on the spoon.

             Lifted back to Will’s eyes, landing with the force of his pride like a rough embrace.  Will shuddered and closed his eyes for a split second.  Then he met Lecter’s gaze again, too hungry, and too desperate for nourishment to second-guess the intensity of the older man’s emotion.

              Hannibal smiled, and held the spoon out to Will.

              “Nothing is insurmountable,” he said, as much to himself as to Will.  “Nothing.”

              All good things in good time.  And someday, all good things would be all the time.

              That much he knew.

              Will closed his eyes and savored Hannibal’s provision. 

              A precursor of things to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much, everyone, for your encouraging words - wow - so energizing! This is the end of this story but I might pick up another 'thread' later. Here's hoping HANNIBAL gets renewed!


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